…how could I forget my own heart?
As you are writing, pouring out heart
onto the pages in fits and in starts
I am right there, so quiet and soft
and Heart is the flag that we unfurl aloft.
I know to be still and just rest there in peace
while furious storms you capture and release
transformed by your spinning skills, straw into gold,
while I look on in wonder and glory behold.
You shift in your seat and blow that wisp of hair
that falls crost your brow towards your face ever fair.
But I keep my balance with liquidy frame
and wait til you’re done and you call out my name.
I am so happy to sit there and pour
out my glad joy to a friend I adore
and warm up the cold places in your deep core
and follow our Mama Who goes on Before.
All my love…your Sis
*Charissa applauds with one hand and one hand only,
then giggles delightedly, takes another piece of Irony Cake*
“Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified.
He is not here; for He is risen, as He said.
Come, see the place where the Lord lay. And go quickly and tell His disciples that He is risen from the dead, and indeed He is going before you into Galilee; there you will see Him. Behold, I have told you.”
So they went out quickly from the tomb with fear and great joy, and ran to bring His disciples word.
Thru misty morning
dimly in trees
a House There is Gleaming
thawing the Freeze.
A House of Eight Gables
(the extra one Risen)
the stamp of Forever
broadcast to the lost.
The mist speaks of Avalon
but the House that is Gleaming
shines there more True.
It speaks of our Healing.
It speaks of our Hope.
A House that is Gleaming
shall cut every rope.
We were connected and vital, and love flowed
we were enough for our lack and love covered all
we heard our hearts speak louder than hate
and louder than failure and laughed in the night
and tender was our time, we thought would last
“‘They never built these places with winter in mind’
Out the window down the gray road
You can see old walled monastery
Now become a barracks for the paramilitary police”
on this morning grey
just before the dawn
wakes up shell-pink, sleepy
and pokes out her head
from heathery hillsides
i think about stones
that choke every grave’s throat
to seal in what died
and ward we the living
from death’s steely touch.
hopes, dreams, and best efforts
killed by the sword-thrusts
of one-eyed sword masters
who wield their tongue cruel
and sharper than death
to slaughter what’s wounded
in time and by tears
and the enemy capers
in Opposite-joy….indifferences, sicknesses
unto death both
end up in the grave
and stones are placed there
to protect us here.
but today I wander
thru fields wet and wild
I press past the burrs
and the thorns in the thunder
to find the grey gravestones
so stolid and still
just over that hill…
and rolled away stones
never cease to amaze me
because they will not budge
when I lean on them
or when I lean on Them…
the work of a Digger
the work of a Builder
the work of a Healer
the work of a Surgeon
the work of a Lover
Rolled Away Stones